


Setting Expectations

by SouthernContinentSkies



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Book: The Vor Game, Gen, Missing Scene, Slight Canon Divergence, Time Period: Reign of Gregor Vorbarra, for real now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: “You didn’t tell Illyan the truth about your little topple off the balcony, did you.”[...]“...how did you know?”“He doesn’t talk about you with secret terror in his eyes.”- The Vor Game, Chapter 17In another timeline, Gregor makes a different choice. (And Miles underestimates Illyan.)





	Setting Expectations

The first thing that Gregor had thought, once his brain had swum back into focus (somewhere between Pol and the Hub, on the freighter), had been, simply, “Fuck.” 

The second thing, following very closely, had been, “How am I ever going to explain this to Simon?” 

Several weeks later, he was still contemplating that question, with increasing urgency. The _Prince Serg_ would be back in orbit above Barrayar within thirty-six hours, and while there would be days worth of interminable formalities following their triumphant return, he could only put off meeting with his Chief of Security for so long. There was only one remotely satisfactory answer that he had come up with so far: with Simon Illyan, the only winning move was not to play. If he wanted to come out of this meeting as something resembling a head of state, rather than a scolded adolescent, he had to take enough control of the conversation to make it about something else, anything else, besides his voluntary desertion of duty.

Three years ago, Gregor wouldn’t have thought it possible to “win” a conversation with Simon Illyan. Not even three weeks ago, he wouldn’t have tried. But since then, he’d managed to outmaneuver a series of Jacksonian security patrols, a psychotic mercenary commander, and Prime Minister Count Aral Vorkosigan, and so he approached the idea with a renewed sense of the possible. 

The trick, he had realized, having finally spent enough time with Miles to understand his bizarre _modus operandi_ , was simply not to stop. Forward momentum: adopt your position, and proceed firmly towards your goal, without the slightest acknowledgement that any other outcome is even possible. If a disgraced Barrayaran ex-cadet could become a Betan mercenary admiral through the sheer projection of his imagination, surely the actual Emperor of Barrayar could live up to his own title. He hoped.

Of course, in practice, this depended on Simon giving him a conversational opening. With Aral, the issue of battle placement had been predictable, and an easy place to make a visible stand. With Simon, it was entirely possible that the Chief of Imperial Security would skate through the entire meeting on a veneer of icy professionalism, disapproving without engaging, or providing any front on which to be engaged. If Gregor wanted a confrontation, he might have to goad Simon into one in the first place, which presented its own challenge; Simon was not easily goaded, to say the least.

The conversation itself, he decided, should take place in Simon’s office. Trying to summon Simon to the Residence would either backfire horribly or tip his hand. Additionally, if his efforts at conversational judo dissolved into shambles, it would be far easier to make a strategic withdrawal from ImpSec HQ than to try to eject Simon from his office. He was trying to make a point, not pick a fight. 

The scheduling turned out to be the easy part. Exactly forty-eight hours after the _Prince Serg_ 's shuttle had returned him to Barrayaran soil, Simon’s secretary requested “a moment of the Emperor’s time, whenever is most convenient,” which of course meant, “yesterday, if at all possible; if not possible, come anyway.” Simon was clearly annoyed. Gregor’s own secretary sent back an acknowledgement calculated to be appropriately accommodating without any overt hint of deference (par for the course), and at the appointed time later that evening Gregor strode down the very convenient passageway connecting the Residence to the secret door panel in Simon’s ImpSec office.

He left his perennial shadows outside in the passageway, once they’d cleared the room (even here, at Simon’s own insistence). Witnesses would be awkward no matter how this went, but ImpSec witnesses especially would be a problem. He didn’t want Simon to have to worry about his image with his own subordinates, on top of everything else.

The conversation itself began, of course, very blandly. Simon was the master of hiding passive aggressive barbs under nominally neutral reports and inquiries. 

Gregor, for his part, matched Simon’s tone as closely as possible. He knew that Simon’s real objective for the meeting was to impress upon him how stupid his actions had been, and ideally to receive in return some sort of remorseful acknowledgement of that fact. Gregor knew that the quickest way to mollify Simon would be to make some sort of implied but obvious apology, which would allow both of them to move on as before without actually acknowledging anything - if he wanted to de-escalate and make amends. Instead, he deliberately avoided any hint that the events of the past few weeks had been anything other than the strategic plan presented for public consumption. He was banking on this uncharacteristic self-possession drawing Simon far enough out on the limb of his legendary composure to snap it - or at least bend it a bit. It would give him the opening he needed to take control. If that didn’t work, Gregor would have to somehow channel Miles even further, and improvise. He prayed it didn’t come to that.

“Gregor, what possessed you to do this in the first place?” Simon said finally, having at long last run out of professionalism. Gregor sighed in internal relief. “What were you _thinking?_ ”

“I wasn’t,” said Gregor, much more calmly than he felt. “I jumped.”

Simon froze. The strongest version of his mask of blandness that Gregor had yet seen leapt up to swallow the irritation on his face, but not in time to obscure a flash of naked fear. He said nothing, his paralysis apparently extending into his vocal cords.

Gregor seized the moment. “If I was thinking anything,” he said, watching his Chief of Security carefully, “it was that I was probably saving you and Aral a great deal of trouble in not having to depose me later, when I invariably started taking after Serg.”

He looked at Simon. Simon looked back. For a moment, they said nothing.

“Do you think I do?” Gregor continued, in the same conversational tone. “Take after Serg, I mean.”

“No,” said Simon shortly, without relaxing. “Though as you very well know, that is the only way I could possibly answer that question.”

“But you know exactly what I mean, Simon,” said Gregor, more quietly. “And you didn’t enlighten me, any more than Aral did.”

“In the first place,” said Simon, sitting up straighter in his chair and regaining a touch of his previous asperity, “discussions about your family were the province of your Guardian, not your Chief of Security. Serg was not an ongoing security threat. And in the second place, _Sire_ , you have had access to all the relevant files for the past five years. You could have looked it up yourself.”

“The files that still existed,” said Gregor drily, “if I had had any clue that there might be something to look up.”

There was a moment of silence while the two of them regarded each other again, across the expanse of Simon’s desk. Again, Gregor was the one who broke it.

“Tell me, Simon,” he said, with deceptive mildness, “How many times in the past five years have you briefed me on something after you and Aral had already discussed it?”

Simon’s jaw tightened, and he drew a breath. Gregor continued before he could answer.

“I can’t blame you for it,” he said. “It was the best way to get the best result for Barrayar, after all. Aral knew what he was doing, and I didn’t, and we all knew that I was in too much of a slump to do anything other than what Aral suggested, most of the time. Discussing things with him first was simply more efficient. And of course, it would have been difficult to break old habits formed in the Regency. And old loyalties, formed even earlier. You’ve been with him since Escobar, after all.”

This time, Simon didn’t even move to answer. Gregor couldn’t tell whether his continued stillness was that of a rabbit transfixed by a snake, or the snake itself, waiting to strike. Knowing Simon, it was likely the latter masquerading as the former. But he couldn’t back down now; the only way out of this conversational judo was through.

“When I had you arrested four years ago,” he pressed on, past the red line and fully committed now, “it was the only thing in that whole terrible incident that I did correctly. It was foolish to suspect Aral of treason in the first place, let alone Miles - but had he been plotting any, you would have been with him.”

As expected, Simon’s only response was continued frozen silence. They both knew there was no point in him saying anything, yet. If Gregor was leading up to demanding Simon’s resignation, or worse, there was clearly nothing Simon could do at this point to head him off; if he wasn’t, Simon would hardly want to jump that gun. Unlike Aral, Simon had no dramatic feudal urges to fall on his sword as a gesture; he would do it to strategically advance the Imperium, or not at all.

“I don’t want to revisit the past,” continued Gregor, despite having just done so deliberately. “I want to move forward. Away from old mistakes. And old habits.” He fixed Simon with a steady gaze. “The Chief of Imperial Security reports to the Emperor, Simon. Not the Prime Minister. I hope that Chief of Security can be you.”

Having delivered his coup de grace, Gregor sat back in his chair, employing every lesson in Neutral Expressions and Imperial Demeanor that Aral and Lady Alys had ever given him. This was a bluff, really; he could fire Simon, but he didn’t actually have anyone of similar competence and loyalty to replace him with, and Simon surely knew it. Simon might be loyal to Aral first, but Aral was loyal to him (Gregor was done doubting that, now, at last), and even feudalism worked as a government structure if you had the right people. 

Alternatively, and much worse, Simon could accede in voice but not in fact. Without his Horus eyes, the Emperor was blind, limited only to what he personally encountered in the Residence; without the hands of ImpSec operatives, the Emperor’s reach was short indeed. ImpMil might still answer to him (or, really, to Aral), but it was too blunt an instrument to be an effective substitute. Without both honesty and candor from his Chief of Security, he was finished as anything resembling a ruler; a series of official portraits would be quite an adequate replacement. 

He didn’t think either result was entirely likely (Aral had spent too much sweat and blood guarding the campstool for him to let it be undermined in such a way, and Simon would follow his orders, at least), but keeping his breath and body language at the appropriately self-assured attitude during the moment that followed still required a great deal of effort.

Simon’s expression, meanwhile, had warmed an infinitesimal degree, from frozen blandness to marginally thawing contemplation. 

“Sire,” he said finally, inclining his head slightly but deliberately. “We live to serve.”

Gregor had managed not to hold his breath, but he let it out metaphorically anyway. “Thank you,” he said, with absolute sincerity. “I’m glad.”

He stood to leave - this was the zenith; there was no place left to go but down - and turned to activate the passage doorway without looking to see if Simon did as well. He had the acknowledgement he needed; pressing for any further deference would be massively counterproductive.

“Ezar.” Simon spoke behind him.

Gregor turned back. “Simon?” he said, with inquiring eyebrows.

“That’s the Vorbarra you take after,” said Simon, drily. “Sire.”

Gregor’s lips quirked into a small, peculiar smile. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I’ll have to take that as a compliment. Simon.” He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and swept out of the office, back to the Emperor’s Residence and the bureaucratically metaphorical embrace of his secretary.

\---

Afterwards, Simon Illyan sat at his desk, as alone as he ever was. He resisted the suggestions from the chip to review snippets of meetings with Ezar, overlaid with the conversation he’d just finished. He hadn’t suggested the comparison as a sop, after all. Though it was his own fault for underestimating the boy. _The Emperor,_ he corrected himself. _Finally._

There was no window in the office, of course, but he contemplated the painting of the Vorbarr Sultana skyline that served as a substitute. As he did so, he noted - throughout the entire meeting, Gregor had never once apologized, or even found it necessary to explain himself, including his (and here Simon’s brain conducted a strategic self-preservatory edit) motivations for descending from the balcony. That last was, he conceded, highly worrisome - he would have to get Lady Alys to talk to Cordelia - but overall, that was the first exchange he had ever had with Gregor where the putative Emperor of Barrayar had looked remotely convinced that he was actually in charge of something.

 _Well, well,_ he thought. _Someday, it might actually be possible for me to retire._


End file.
